The Last Six Million Seconds

What to look for and where to start? His flashlight picked out the priceless carpets and the antique rifle on the wall. The collection of opium pipes in their glass case looked as untouched as a museum piece. Where does a scholar keep his secrets? He padded softly down the hall to the library.

On the lectern facing the window an open volume of poems in Chinese waited. The Englishman had made notes and produced one full translation:

Blue, blue is the grass about the river

And the willows have overfilled the close garden

And within, the mistress, in the midmost of her youth,

White, white of face, hesitates, passing the door.

Slender, she puts forth a slender hand;

And she was a courtesan in the old days,

And she has married a sot,

Who now goes drunkenly out

And leaves her too much alone.

Chan paused over the poem. Over the top of the page Cuthbert had scrawled the single word “Emily.” Flicking through the notes, Chan found some instructions the diplomat had given himself:

“Tell Hill fix mold on trees. Service car before end month. Change for Nepal (plus get visa). Cash to safe.”

Safe? His spirits fell. The ability to break into a flat or house was a skill a detective picked up during the course of business. Safecracking was an exotic specialization involving welding equipment, etc. Homicide didn’t do safes.

He found it behind a false facade in a corner of the room. It was about four feet high, two feet thick and two and a half feet wide-and locked. He was sitting on the floor in front of it, feeling futile and foolish, when the door opened and a light flicked on.

Cuthbert’s bow tie was undone and lay across the ruffs of his dress shirt. In his hand he held the largest revolver Chan had ever seen. The diplomat’s face was ashen.

“I thought you’d try the library first.” He strode further into the room. “You’ve been by the banyan tree for the past two evenings. I saw you. Telescope. You’ve deduced that I killed her and think perhaps I kept that tape recording.” Cuthbert raised the huge revolver, pointed it vaguely in Chan’s direction. “I feel as if I’ve been trying to get rid of you forever.”

“I finally noticed,” Chan said. “Big gun.”

Cuthbert grunted. Keeping the gun pointed in Chan’s direction, he walked over to the chesterfield, sat and emitted a long sigh. After a moment he raised the gun again, pointed it at Chan’s head. “Well, this is the moment of truth. If I killed her, I would have no choice but to kill you, would I? I could say you burgled me, which is true, and I fired in self-defense. I assume that bulge under your jacket is a service revolver.”

Chan closed his eyes. He heard Cuthbert pull the trigger. Chan was still shuddering seconds after the hammer clicked on the empty chamber.

Cuthbert threw the gun onto the carpet. “You really are the most unbelievable pain in the arse. And for a homicide detective, pretty damned ignorant about firearms. No ammunition has been available for the Civil War LeMat in over fifty years.”

“I’m sorry,” Chan said in Cantonese. “Your erudition is truly masterful. I am overwhelmed.” In English he added: “Even if you didn’t kill her, you framed me.” He was still twitching.

“True.”

“Why?”

Cuthbert spoke in a clipped, bitter voice. “Because I was allowed to. London changed its mind-after a lot of coaxing, I might add. I had to use the governor to go over Henderson’s head to the minister. Henderson’s hopping mad. But I was right, damn it. There was no reason at all not to delay the case until after June; I was simply keeping you out of the way until then. Of course this was before you found that American lesbian and her friends. The cat’s out of the bag now. We can leave you to Xian. If we move fast, we can reinstate you prior to your assassination.”

Still in shock, Chan tried to concentrate. Bitter recrimination was not the reaction one normally expected from a murder suspect. Not in Mongkok anyway. “Who’s Henderson?”

Cuthbert sat back on the sofa, pinched the bridge of his nose. “A fat, androgynous glutton who runs Britain.”

“And you had me framed to get me off the case?”

“I have the authorization from the minister.”

“But I was kept on the case?”

“Thank Commissioner Ronald Tsui for that. I underestimated him. Quite the paper warrior.”

Chan remembered the way Tsui had not looked at him when they accused him of murdering Emily.

“Tsui knew I was innocent? He knew you set me up?” He could not suppress a note of hope. How very Chinese, to want to set the record straight with Authority as one was dragged before the firing squad.

“He knew nothing, but I think he guessed.”

“Ah, yes. Only the white mandarins would have shared the stratagem.” He endured Cuthbert’s stare. “I’m going to stand up now.” An odd thing to say; he found it difficult to believe that Cuthbert did not have some other weapon concealed, ready to attack.

“You may as well. I suppose we have things to discuss.”

Chan stood. When Cuthbert failed to produce an antique gun from his jacket, Chan flapped his arms nervously. Never burgle an Englishman; he may come home and want to talk. But Cuthbert seemed lost in thought.

“You faked the fingerprint evidence on Emily’s belt? It’s professional curiosity that makes me ask.”

The diplomat seemed to relax. He sat back a little on the sofa, sighed.

“MI6 are still capable of certain elementary tasks, not that one would trust them with something important. You’ve no idea how proud they are that they managed to break into Arsenal Street forensic laboratory without getting caught.” Cuthbert scowled. “For the best description of the English psyche, look to Lewis Carroll.”

Warily Chan moved around the room. He glanced back at the lectern.

“You didn’t kill her? You knew I was coming? And you wrote her name at the top of that poem?”

The diplomat stared at him. “Christ.” He shook his head. “I need a drink. Try not to think about anything while I’m gone. I’ve noticed it’s when you think that things most often take a turn for the worse.”

Cuthbert returned with a bottle of brandy and two balloon-shaped brandy glasses, which he placed on a coffee table near to the chesterfield. He poured until the glasses were about one-third full. Without waiting for Chan, he took two quick swallows. Chan saw that he had finished half the glass. Cuthbert took the silver cigarette case out of his jacket, threw a cigarette to Chan and lit one for himself, at the same time sitting down on the sofa. After an inhalation he swallowed the rest of the brandy and poured another glass.

“Drink,” Cuthbert said. “It may stop you thinking.”

Chan shrugged and picked up the glass. The Englishman had a point. Chan watched him swallow more brandy. He took a sip himself.

“Nice cognac.”

Cuthbert shook his head, apparently in disbelief. “D’you know that’s the only small talk I’ve ever heard from you? It takes a burglary, I suppose.”

“Nice cigarette.”

“Don’t, it’s painful.”

Chan reached out to touch a book titled A Photographer in Old Peking. With Cuthbert watching he pulled it from the shelf and flicked through it. To Chinese eyes, even a non-Communist, the pictures reflected a period of shame. Caucasian predators had flooded the Middle Kingdom. The worst sold opium and ruthlessly exploited the people; the best found it all very quaint. To understand someone like Cuthbert, one had to look with Western eyes. With the distance of time and the skillful positioning of the camera lens there was a haunting beauty in The Opium Smoker and His Son, The Jujube Seller, The Altar of Heaven by Moonlight. It was long before the Cultural Revolution; the old walls were there, still intact, and of course the gates that foreigners like Cuthbert lamented so deeply since Mao destroyed them: Hsi An Men, Ti An Men, Tung An Men and Hou Men. Chan closed the book.